Twas the night before Christmas - well, actually it was four nights before - when I made a couple of discoveries that caused me to panic.

I was planning the seating arrangements for Christmas dinner - me by the wine, The Mother separated from said wine by dishes of sprouts, roast potatoes and a couple of our friends - when I realised we hadn't enough matching dinner plates.

You know how it happens, plates get chipped or broken and you keep meaning to replace them but while there's only two for tea, so to speak, nothing gets done until a Big Occasion looms.

The second discovery was that our once eight-piece matching cutlery set now ran out after four place settings and that the carving fork had a prong missing.

Now, I believe that in a perfect world there'd be the option of voluntary hibernation for consenting adults every Christmas and I'd be the first volunteer.

But as there isn't (except for The Mother who has been in hibernating mode ever since the temperature dropped to single figures) I had to make an immediate decision.

Should I go out and stock up with a new dinner service and cutlery now or should I develop a thick skin, set the table with the mismatched plates and dishes and wait for the January sales before parting with my money?

When The Mother woke up, I told her that I'd be looking for a new dinner service come the New Year.

"And about time," she said. "There's hardly a plate or dish that matches in your cupboard and goodness knows what we're going to do when people come for their Christmas dinner ... "

Then it hit her. "Yes, what are we going to do?" she asked. "We can't possibly have our guests eating off a jumble of odd plates. What would they think of us?"

"I imagine they'd think it was rather Bohemian," I said. "Anyway, if I pile their plates high with food, they won't even notice what the pattern is like, or even if there is a pattern, underneath."

However, honour was restored, after a fashion, when I was able to tell The Mother the following day that we would be eating off matching plates after all.

"You've bought a new dinner service!" she said excitedly. "Let me see it then."

I explained that I hadn't bought a new service but had hired one, though no money was being charged for the loan.

The Mother looked mystified and not at all pleased. "I don't like the sound of that," she said. "I don't want to eat my Christmas dinner off somebody else's plate, somebody I don't know."

"You won't be doing that," I told her, and then explained that it was one of our friends, someone who would be joining us for Christmas dinner, who would be lending us the matching plates (and also some matching cutlery but I didn't mention that).

I thought The Mother would be pleased by this news. I misread the situation.

"That is disgraceful," she said. "How could you invite someone for Christmas dinner and then ask them to bring along their own plates? Aren't you ashamed?

"I suppose you'll be asking people next to come for dinner and bring their own turkey and mince pies!"

"What a good idea!" I said and waited till she was out of earshot before ringing my friend and asking if I could borrow a saucepan as well.

By the time you read this, it will be Boxing Day and for most of us all that remains of this year's Christmas dinner will be memories - and maybe a few broken plates.